


Mercymaking

by shomarus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-16 14:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11254941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shomarus/pseuds/shomarus
Summary: A compilation of drabbles and ficlets centered around Angela “Mercy” Ziegler and Amélie “Widowmaker” Lacroix.





	1. through you and within you,

**Author's Note:**

> i've been writing stuff on my daily commute and figured that i should start posting. :0c

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Widowmaker, Angela and Mercy are two different people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: forgot to add a chapter title, like an idiot.

To Widowmaker, Angela and Mercy are two different people.

 

Mercy is firm. Angela is carefree. Mercy is no-nonsense, strictly professional, attentive to everything and everyone. Angela has a laugh that could break down even the coldest of Talon mercenaries, the kind of person who’d wonder where the time’s gone when you put a drink in her hand and good company by her person.

When Widowmaker sees Mercy, she sees a good doctor, a staunch pacifist. The kind of person who’d hold the hands of children and who would feed the needy. A perfect little goody two-shoes with a good streak who could never, ever rub anyone the wrong way.

She sees a person who’d regard Widowmaker with hatred.

But when Widowmaker sees Angela, she sees pure, unadulterated Angela. She sees the Angela who berated herself for every mistake, who’d punish herself with bottles of 500 mg caffeine pills. She sees the Angela who lost herself in her work, the person who’d wear the same clothes for days on end, the Angela who couldn’t function without her morning coffee, who’s room was an absolute _shithole_. Neither of them really cared, it had been so _good_.

 

But, as Mercy and Angela inhabited the same body, they were both too caring. Too _feeling_. Feeling is weakness. Weakness is pain. And pain is undesirable.

 

Amélie had made a mistake in letting Angela get too close to her. Amélie had made a mistake in letting herself fall in love, because Widowmaker would never admit it, but she thinks that she’s in love with Angela too.

Widowmaker feels so much when she sees Angela. She feels more than she ever does when she kills. Nostalgia. Heartache. Desire. Longing. But then there’s fear, and Widowmaker knows that that’s not right. _Talon didn’t train Widowmaker to be a coward._ Talon doesn’t accept weakness.

 

Feeling is weakness. Weakness is pain. Pain is undesirable.

 

And because of this, Widowmaker can’t let her thoughts drag back to Angela. Widowmaker can’t let herself think that maybe, even for a second, Angela could learn to love Widowmaker in the way that she had loved Amélie. That perhaps they, even for a _second_ , could share the same bed. Legs and arms tangled together, giggling without a care in this cursed world. Forgetting about their different responsibilities, forgetting the time, forgetting Gérard. They forgot about the world, and in turn, the Earth continued to spin without them. This feeling had been so good. It had been so fucking good.

 

_“Je ne veux plus ceci.”_

 

Perhaps if Widowmaker said it out aloud, then those feelings would become true. Then maybe she could lie to herself again, convince herself that everything’s alright. That she’s okay. And so she repeats it to herself, again and again.

 

Louder. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want it anymore.

Louder. She doesn’t want it, and her heart doesn’t ache when she thinks about Angela’s soft smile, the challenge just as outspoken as the warmth and adoration.

Louder. Her stomach doesn’t clench when she thinks about how the morning light in Amélie’s room hits Angela in just the right way, wrapping her lover in a glowing halo in a way that made Amélie want to do dangerous things.

 

 _Louder_.

 

Widowmaker is supposed to feel numb to all emotion. She’s not allowed to feel like she’s 25 again, young and drunk on love. But God knows she _feels_ it, and that’s too much. It was already too much when Amélie fell in love with Angela.

If Talon ever knew that Widowmaker felt like this, a conditioning session would be arranged. That was another thought that made her feel more than killing. But there was no feeling of dependence, happiness. There was only coldness. Sharp, constant pain. More than the agony that she feels when she thinks of what she and Angela could have been.

 

But not as much as the agony she feels when she sees _Angela_ on the battlefield.  
When she sees that she’s supposed to kill _Mercy_.


	2. i remember nights long past.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Angela, Widowmaker and Amélie are inseparable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second part of the first ficlet.  
> drew a liiiil bit of inspiration from Do No Harm, which, by the way, is a fucking stellar fanfiction.

To Angela, Widowmaker and Amélie are inseparable.

 

Widowmaker may be cold. Amélie may be warm. But Angela could study Widowmaker’s face, and Angela knew that this cold-hearted killer was still her devilish Amélie underneath. Her perfect Amélie. She may have changed, but the tells were all there.

From the little tug that pulls her lips when she thinks she’s being clever, right down to the fact that Widowmaker doesn’t allow herself any physical imperfection. Just like Amélie. An intangible, _ethereal_ woman who somehow, Angela managed to seduce.

 

They never had the luxury of nothing more than a sweet peripheral familiarity. Angela, being one of the few people positioned at Overwatch who could speak a somewhat fluent French (she, even to this day, thanks her mother for egging her to study French), ended up spending a lot of time with Amélie. Perhaps a little _too_ much time with Amélie. Amélie got to know Angela better than she’d ever allow anyone to know before. And in turn, Amélie allowed her to see more than she could ever dream.

It was small, originally. Little coffee dates while Gérard Lacroix was carrying out missions. It was still innocent, when Amélie invited Angela to one of her ballet performances. It was still _alright_ , when Angela showed up with roses because Gérard couldn’t arrive and he wanted her to bring as many as her arms could hold. The line was only crossed when Amélie pulled Angela into a backstage room and _kissed_ her. It was so wrong, but it felt _so_ good, and in that moment, she could have forgotten all about her duties at Overwatch, all about Amélie’s husband and all about the world itself.

 

From there, it really only spiraled downward.

 

What used to be just coffee dates turned into more. Angela staying over at Amélie’s, stealing kisses behind closed doors and turned faces. Laughing over sweet nothings and caressing each others face, shoulders, back. Angela loved Amélie, and even if she’d never say it herself, she felt like Amélie loved her too.

Letting the guilt fester beneath her skin, telling herself that just _one more month couldn’t hurt_ , that after this final week, she’d break it off.

She never got the chance to break it off herself. Talon did that for her.

 

Talon. Angela hates them for everything they’ve done. When Amélie had first been kidnapped, Angela couldn’t look at him for weeks. She regrets not having done so, because she never got to say her goodbyes when Talon took _him_ away from her too. They killed Gérard, they stole Amélie, and all Angela was left with was bitterness in her mouth and self-loathing in her heart.

Angela still thinks that she could have won Amélie over. She knows that she wouldn’t have, because Gérard is a good man who deserves nice things. She knows that she should have, because maybe then Gérard wouldn’t have to die.

 

Because maybe then, Widowmaker could be happy.

 

When Angela sees Widowmaker for the first time, something immediately clicks. Amélie. Five years of hurt and pain, wondering what happened, what Angela could have done to prevent it. All of her answers are here, but she just can’t _reach_. It’s a sobering thought, but a frustrating reality all the same.

They’re on the opposite ends of the battlefield, and Mercy’s wants are different from Angela’s. Mercy wants to lead her teammates to victory, _Mercy wants to see Widowmaker dead_. Angela wants to fly to her arms, kiss her and cry. The only question now was whose desires are more important.

In her mind, she knows that Mercy’s duties outweigh Angela’s wishes.

But in her mind, she also knows that nothing will stop her now.

 

Of course, it doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea either. A miscalculation is all it takes for Angela to hurt herself in her landing, and that’s all it takes for her to find herself staring at Amélie— _her_ Amélie, blue as she may now be—through the scope of her gun.

 

She wonders how much has stayed the same, and if she’s been wrong all this time.  
When Widowmaker puts down her gun, Angela sees her expression. The guilt, the tenderness, the _conflict_. She smiles sadly.

 

The very same person.


	3. Office Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela swore the door was locked, but Amélie, like all things, knows how to find a way.

"Hey, Angela." Amélie’s voice came from the now-opened door, the same one that Angela was pretty sure she had locked just after she came in.

"Hey," came her short reply, right before she buried her nose back into schematics and various notes. Angela had left that door locked for a reason. After the fifth time that Fareeha burst in, asking if she could help, Angela had grown tired of nearly spilling scalding bean juice on her scrubs. She just hoped that her curt attitude would make Amélie notice that she wanted to be left alone.

As per the course, the stars were not aligned in Angela’s favor. Instead of turning around like Angela wanted, Amélie locked the door _behind_ her. An eyebrow was raised at the woman smiling (surprisingly, without a hint of cheeky intent) in front of her. "What are you doing?" Amélie asked.

Angela snorted, unable to resist a short bark of laughter. "Honestly? At this point, what am I _not_ doing is a more appropriate question." Between patching up a multitude of brash soldiers, progressing with her nanotechnology studies, and finishing up her Caduceus tech to go with her Valkyrie suit, Angela was being stretched pretty thin. Amélie’s innocent smile soon turned to a familiar smirk, the one that Angela both loved and loathed.

Pairing it with an eyebrow wiggle was a dangerous combination. Consider Angela's curiosity piqued.

"I can think of a few things," Amélie purred. Angela stared, confused. Then her intent became clear; Angela watched in horror as Amélie delicately brushed mountains of paper aside, and climbed on the desk. Before Angela could open her mouth to protest, she leaned forward. "Most pointedly, me."

Angela gulped.

She was the first to break their gaze. "Well, I suppose that I can change that…" Looking over Torbjörn’s proposed changes to the Valkyrie suit was a task that would simply have to wait. "A ten minute break can’t hurt, no? Ten minutes, that’s all. _Verstehen, schatzi_?"

Amélie couldn’t help but to roll her eyes. " _D’accord, ma belle._ "

As like all things with Amélie, it wasn’t really just ten minutes. That was fine with Angela.


	4. Witch Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The huntress is sure she has nothing to offer for the lifting of her curse. The cheeky witch smiles and says otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh had a headache the whole time i was writing so its probably rlly shittie. anyways, love these girls. love these girls a lot...

The gift of immortality.

 

Amélie never had, and likely never would refer to it as such.  Under different circumstances, she  _ might  _ have, but how could something be considered a gift if it pushed you to kill those who you loved?

Gérard hadn’t deserved such a gruesome death. Not many people did. If her thoughts dared to linger on that night for too long, she could still feel the slick of red liquid, she could still smell the heavy copper, and the taste. The taste had been so intoxicating, and that’s what scared her the most. The thought that she could get used to this, ripping away someone’s life so violently. So long as she got the blood that she wanted.

“The first feeding is when most vampires find they lose the most control,” she remembered someone saying to her. Amélie had been so out of it that she could barely make out any features, but she knew that this was the person who had turned her. “Of course, if you’re particularly unlucky, there’s a chance you may go feral… permanently.”

At the time, she didn’t know why they had chosen her. She didn’t know that they wanted her perfect Gérard dead. Not until she found a hunger lurking at the pit of her stomach. Not until she stared down and found her mouth covered in red and his eyes… God, his eyes. She didn’t know whether to cry or to puke. How could someone look so terrified but so full of love at the same time? It wasn’t fair.

Amélie had learned to control her hunger, to live with it. She’d even tried to turn her hunger into something of good. A bounty huntress, she now fed off of those who had done wrong. Of course, it didn’t necessarily make her hunger feel right. She was no longer human, and she knew it. She was never going to get that part of her back.

The night was cool, although she supposed it didn’t really mean much to a thermoconformer.  _ Everything  _ felt cool to her. It seemed like it was every day that Amélie learned one more thing that detached her from mankind. It was sickening, that a creature like her was allowed to continue existence. Was this what other vampires felt like, needlessly grabbing for  _ some  _ aspect of humanity?

Ah. There was someone eyeing her. Amélie had felt a gaze staring into her backside for quite some time, actually. She had been hoping to bait the creature out with faux ignorance, but she’d grown tired of waiting. Funny, coming from someone who had forever in the grasp of her hands. She called out. “Show yourself, why don’t you?”

“How unfun.”

With an astoundingly quick reflex time, Amélie turned around and aimed her weapon at the creature behind her. A woman, outfitted in stereotypical witch garb. Her eyes narrowed. What kind of a fool would pit magic against gunfire? The power imbalance did nothing to deter the witch, who scoffed playfully and pushed the rifle away from her body.

“This isn’t how you’re supposed to treat a guest!” A mock pout. Just what was it that this woman was trying to get at? “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know you, Amélie Lacroix. Considering me to be a friend would do you a world of good.”

Admittedly, Amélie was intrigued. Not quite sold, but intrigued. Despite this, she raised the gun again. Should the witch try anything she didn’t like, all it would take was a pull of the trigger. All this confidence that she was exuding would do her nothing when she was dead. “What do you want from me?”

The witch smiled. “Not the question you should be asking, huntress. I should also mention! Real cute that you think that gun will do anything against Angela Ziegler, Witch of the Wilds.”

So that’s who she was. The gun was lowered. Keeping this in mind, trying to take a shot was like writing a suicide note. “I was expecting someone with more grandeur, if I were being quite honest.” Amélie had heard the tales about the Witch of the Wilds, just like anyone else has. Someone who was able to cure any ailment… for a price.

“Noted.  _ Weisch mich. _ You seem to know who I am, yes? Then am I safe in assuming that you also know why I’m here?”

Amélie did not. “Indulge me.”

“I’ve been able to hear your pleas to lift this… Vampirism off of you for a while. Goodness me, the desire was so strong that I wasn’t sure I could get here fast enough!” She laughed and threw a wink towards Amélie. Her face remained wary. “What you want is to be alleviated from your curse,  _ gäll _ ?”

Yes. She’d never wanted anything more in her life than this. But there had to be a catch. There was always a catch with something good like this, and the Witch of the Wilds was not a woman chalked up to be a good Samaritan. “You require something of me.”

“Ever the clever woman, I see! I do suppose there’s some form of payment required for such a  _ draining  _ task. Pardon the pun, I simply couldn’t resist.” Angela was disgustingly cheerful, considering the situation they were in. Amélie decided not to comment. “So, make an offer.”

Amélie thought about this for a while. Material things meant nothing to the witch. Material things didn’t mean much to Amélie either; after killing Gérard she rarely came back home. The house was left untouched. Aside from that, she didn’t know what else to give. Money meant nothing. And being a vampire, she had no connections to give. No spells to use.

“... While I thank you for the offer, I deny your service.” She decided, finally.

Clearly, this was not the answer that Angela was hoping for. Or expecting, for that matter. For a second, she seemed genuinely off-put. “Come now, that’s not what you’re supposed to say. I know you want this, and I know you have something that I desire. You think I’d put so much strain on my wings were it not for this?” The overly sweet smile came back.

“I have nothing to give,” Amélie replied flatly. She had no clue what Angela was trying to get at. She still didn’t know when Angela took a step towards her and rested her arms on her shoulders.

“Many things come to mind.” Angela’s voice was less obnoxiously sweet this time around. Lower, much more flirty than what Amélie would have ever expected. “Your lips, for one. Your body, for another. If you’d let me, how about both?”

Amélie stared, trying not to let the embarrassment show on her visage. “... You. You’re being serious?”

Angela rolled her eyes with a grin and closed the gap.


	5. Song and Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls head to Emily’s for some drinks and a night of karaoke. Lena suggests a song for Amélie to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some emilena in this chapter, with sombra also.
> 
> [dr. wanna do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSMY-dmvQlg) is the song that amélie is singing. i didn't want to write out all of the lyrics for fear of this chapter looking like a 2013 vocaloid songfic, so forgive me if it like. disrupts the flow or anything like that.

By the fifth drink, Lena’s singing went from ‘merely horrible’ to ‘absolutely abysmal’. With everyone in a pleasant mood, it didn’t seem to matter too much. What _was_ annoying, however, was Lena’s inability to pass the microphone around. She didn’t even get through her second round of Fitz and the Tantrums’ _The Walker_ (for Lena claimed that she needed to sing this one part _just_ right) before Amélie had to intervene and take the microphone by force.

“This is a coup d’etat,” Amélie said with a smirk, waggling a finger in front of Lena’s face as though she were a puppy. With the way that Lena was looking at her, she might as well have been one. But, not being a person to fall for such shenanigans easily, Amélie turned to offer the microphone to the woman next to her. “Want to take it for a bit?”

Sombra took the microphone gratefully. “Dude, _gracias_. Like, super thanks. That _whistling_ , man. Gets in your head; it’s awful.” Amélie shrugged in response.

Even then, the meddling continued. While Amélie was browsing through songs, Lena sauntered her way over to where she sat. “Hey hey, lookin’ for somethin’ to sing? How ‘boooooout... sing this one!” she suggested, the giddiness pouring out of her voice in waves. Amélie could only smile and nod.

Angela watched this exchange happen out of the corner of her eye. Emily was trying to talk to her about something (perhaps her next photography opportunity?), but it was clear that Angela wasn’t really listening. She noticed this, and chuckled. “Feeling distracted, Angela?”

That seemed to perk Angela up, and she looked like a deer caught in headlights. All this seemed to do was extract a giggle from Emily. “No worries! I love Lena more than words could ever describe, but that’s not to say that Amélie isn’t a total looker either. Can’t say I blame you!”

“... Yeah.” She smiled, albeit not without a touch of discomfort. “Looks like they’re up to something now though, huh?”

“Oh, definitely!” Emily laughed warmly. “Lena’s such a devious little scamp when you get a couple a’ drinks in her.” Yes, that was a thing that Angela found herself thinking as well. Speaking of the devil, Lena seemed to be finished with Amélie. She plopped herself in Emily’s arms, the both of them trying to stifle laughter as Emily pressed a few kisses to Lena’s cheek.

Sombra sang the last few lines of her song, before flipping her hair over her shoulder. She flashed a grin at the other four women who were clapping wildly. Lena yelled out a cheer before dissolving back into laughter. “Alright, my work here is done. Have fun, _arañita_!” she smiled, tossing the microphone to Amélie.

Amélie stared straight at Angela and smiled. Not quite a smirk, but she looked _very_ smug. Angela couldn’t help but to raise an eyebrow, smiling all the while. “Hey, Angela, this one’s for you.”

She smiled back at Amélie as the song started. A cheery ensemble of saxophones greeted Angela. Perhaps the other woman would have been a little offended if she said that she’d been expecting something like, whatever, Evanescence rather than this pleasant little tune. It was nice regardless.

“I checked in at reception and put my hat into my lap,” Amélie sang. Angela’s smile widened. She was really into her performance, even going as far as to move animatedly in time with the beat. “And when she walked in dressed in white, I had a heart attack.” Dramatically, Amélie placed a hand to her forehead; Angela snorted.

Amélie continued to pose in an exaggerated fashion during the pre-chorus. Then she got to the chorus, and Angela couldn’t help but to laugh into her hand. “Doctor, I want you!” A song about loving a doctor? It was so cheesy, and maybe a little embarrassing as well. But nice, definitely nice. “I can’t get over you... Doctor, do anything that you wanna do.”

The song progressed in this manner until she finished, Amélie extending her hand to Angela. She took it and was pulled to her. She laughed into the crook of her neck. “God, Amélie, you’re absolutely ridiculous. I love it.”

“And me too?” She asked hopefully. Angela rolled her eyes.

“My, after a performance like that, it’d be a capital crime if I were to say no!” She pecked Amélie on the lips.

Lena grinned and yelled. “Hey, get a room you two!” Amélie grinned and handed the microphone back to her. “Ooh, alright, you’ve shut me up.”

They sat back on the couch. Angela’s face felt like it was going to split with the sheer amount of smiling she’d been doing for the past five minutes. “You know, I didn’t know your voice could go that high,” she remarked.

Amélie snickered. “Really? _You_ , of all people, didn’t know? Perhaps I’ll need to jog your memory a bit, _ouais_?” Angela responded by lightly punching her girlfriend in the shoulder.

“See? Completely ridiculous. Still love you though,” Angela said, leaning up for another kiss. Amélie indulged, while they both tried to ignore the sound of Lena’s off-key rendition of another song.


	6. through the lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battlefield is no place for romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small scenarios based off of voice lines. the first bit is pretty much just a modified copy+paste off of my [tumblr.](http://shomarus.tumblr.com/post/161574577494/it-was-a-stray-bullet-from-another-fight-that)

It was a stray bullet from another fight that ended up killing Widowmaker. Mercy screamed, she ran, flew, whatever it took. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, picking Widowmaker up in her arms. Sobbing into her face. “I’m so sorry, I’ll be faster next time.”

Widowmaker cracked a faint smile. “Would you kill me if I said that I wish you were slower…?”

Mercy looked hurt. Widowmaker looked away.

“‘Heroes never die’, you always yell,” Widowmaker’s voice quieted down. She paused, lest her voice trembled or even cracked. The doctor simply stared, her expression unreadable. “But Angela, mon ange, I am no hero.”

 

“You must like me,” Widowmaker said with a cheeky little smirk. Mercy said nothing, but inside, all she wanted to say was ‘Yes, I do’. Of course, she couldn’t say something like that. Widowmaker was incapable of feeling emotion past the satisfaction of the kill; it was written very clearly in 12-point helvetica. The medical documents don’t lie.

Yet there were times when she suspected that the opposite was true. Fleeting smiles, looks of despair, and then when bullets shot through her every body part... The pain in her face hurt Mercy more than she would have liked to admit.

Throughout the mission, Mercy turned her head constantly to make sure that Widowmaker was alright. Widowmaker shot her a wink and a thumbs up. How very uncharacteristic for a woman who was supposed to feel no emotion. Mercy smiled and flew back to her other teammates.

 

Widowmaker didn’t understand the feeling of desire. She’d been told that she was supposed to ‘desire’ killing. That she was supposed to ‘desire’ praise from her higher-ups because she was doing such a good job. But something in Widowmaker told her that this was conditioned. True,  _ raw _ , desire was something that Widowmaker never felt.

Then again, Widowmaker didn’t know many feelings at all. There was satisfaction. The conditioned desire. And then pain, the natural survival instinct that all living beings were supposed to display. The one that screamed at her to flee.

This time, she couldn’t get away fast enough.

She died.

Dying was an odd experience. She’d felt it so many times before, but as this was her curse, she could never truly  _ die _ . There was no frustration, but instead she had felt… Off. Confusion, perhaps. Her mind was telling her that there was no reason as to why she was allowed a continued existence.

Soon enough, Widowmaker would find herself awake once more. It didn’t matter where, but somewhere. She let herself close her eyes, to relax. The best way to treat exhaustion was with rest.

She was alive again.

There was a difference between waking up to cold loneliness and waking up when Mercy revived her. There was warmth, like being pulled closer to someone’s body. It should have been calming, but Widowmaker supposed that anything she felt from this was just her mind telling her what she was supposed to feel. 

Her mind was also telling her that she was supposed to feel wanted. “Hm,” she muttered, spinning around to look at Mercy. “You must really like having me around.”

Mercy didn’t look back at her, but she paused. She flew off, and Widowmaker was surprised to feel something prickle at the back of her mind before she had the chance to overanalyze it.

_ Why didn’t you turn around? _

_ Look at me. _

Widowmaker didn’t understand desire, but perhaps you didn’t need to understand to feel.


	7. Parasitic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widowmaker loves to kill. Mercy gives her another reason to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha despite what the chapter summary implies it's actually mercy-centric. here's some grim reaper!mercy, which you might have seen flying around on cherubplay if you use it. i also wanted to use it for a fic so uhhhhh yeah. much longer than i thought it was gonna be, oops.  
> edit: fixed some stuff

"The goal of all life is death."

 

Angela Ziegler would have disagreed with this quote. Disagreed with a passion that you'd only see when she was trying to bring patients back from Death's cold claws. The goal of life is whatever the beholder makes it. To please someone, to achieve a greater good, to find self-worth and fulfillment. But as Mercy, she doesn't know anymore.

Mercy is impassive, unknowing, uncaring. Angela saved people from death. Mercy engulfs it, consumes it, absorbs it. In turn, she became the embodiment of life's bitter end, and took no more pleasure in her job than she did when she was a doctor. When she called herself a Valkyrie, jokingly. Because she had the ability to choose who lived or who died. But Mercy does not get the luxury of choice. All Mercy is graced with is a task and the obligation to fulfill it.

She'd held the hands of children before. She'd held the hands of many people, squeezing them gently, assuring them that everything would be alright. If Mercy thinks about it, leading people to the afterlife was similar. Comfort them, protect them. "Nothing will hurt you now," she would whisper, whisper so quietly that even the newly dead were unsure if they had heard her correctly. "Because I will protect you, and I will show you mercy."

Even now, there is more work to be done. Mercy knows that there was always more work to be done. She can’t complain about the workload; she never has the time to overthink what she does.

There are others like her, of course, but she doesn’t know how many. She doesn’t know if there is enough. And to think about what would happen if a soul fades out before she can arrive... It is a thought that scares her. It is a thought that’s beyond her, and she always feels the tendrils of concern gripping at her stomach whenever she tries to wonder.

The lost soul is nearby. Mercy lets herself drift to him. Up the stairs, in the bedroom. She’s never been in this house before, but she knows where to go. She figures it came with her life state, the ability to feel where someone just died. To gravitate to them without a second thought. Mercy used to question why. Not just questions about her abilities. Wondering why she had chosen to become this. Why she couldn't have just settled for being dead, and why she couldn't be on the receiving end of Death's gentle grasp. She doesn't ask anymore. She stopped asking questions when the world stopped giving her answers.

"I'm with you," she murmurs to the soul. She holds his hand all the way until he vanishes, and that was that. Now, Mercy prepares to find another soul and to take them to the afterlife. This is her life. A constant cycle of work that she won’t allow herself to break. She doesn’t know what would happen if she let it.

But there is a problem. A problem that starts with warm brown eyes bearing holes in her back, and a problem that ends with a rifle being pointed straight at her chest. Mercy turns. She knows she shouldn’t. She can’t be killed anyways--she’s already dead. And what’s danger to a person who can’t die? She should just fly off. But she doesn’t. She turns, and she sees a killer.

“Who… Who are you?” the woman asks pointedly. Mercy doesn’t know what to say. Or, more accurately; she doesn’t know if she should speak at all. The rifle isn’t going down, and Mercy wonders if she has the time to spare a few words. She knows that she doesn’t. So of course, she speaks anyways.

“I am called many things,” she says, studying her face, every emotion. Staring into those eyes. Eyes that carry very little emotion, but Mercy thinks that her voice betrays her visage. “To most, I am Death. The Grim Reaper is another name that comes to mind, although I am one of many. If it isn’t to much too ask, I would like to be known as… Mercy.”

The name wasn’t given to her. It was something she had called herself, because when she first started leading souls she desperately wanted to tell herself that she _wasn’t_ taking away the loved ones of many. That she wasn’t disrupting the flow of life, taking others to a lonely hell. That instead, she was leading them to the next life, that _she_ was leading them so that they wouldn’t turn out like her. Now, it is a name she’s used so often that it doesn’t matter whether her theories are true or not.

“Allow me to rephrase,” the woman continues. If she’s off-put, she doesn’t show it. “Why are you in my house?”

Mercy looks at the corpse. Without the warmth of his soul next to it, the body appears lonely. The expression on his face looks lonely. Accepting, loving, but lonely all the same. Mercy notices the ring on his finger, and connects it to the killer in front of her. “Why did you kill this man?”

“That is none of your business.”

Silence. “... Perhaps it isn’t. Goodnight,” Mercy says and leaves through an open window.

 

⏶

 

They meet a second time, only two months later. This time, Mercy notes that the woman’s appearance is much more monstrous, much more nightmarish. The skin that was light and pinkish was now a stark violet.  Those warm brown eyes she had stared into were golden, lurish, but decidedly the same.

There was an image of a spider on her back. Mercy comes up with the nickname _Spinne_ in light of it. There were other images and words inked into her skin, and she frowns. The tattoos are detestable, and Mercy decides that she hates them.

There are many souls in this area. Mercy leads each one of them with the same amount of care and attention that she had given to Spinne’s first victim. She notices that those piercing gold eyes cling to her as she takes each soul. Is she unnerved, or does Spinne think that she can take her life too? Mercy leans towards neither. Spinne must know by now that there’s no way someone can kill her again.

“You wanted to know why I killed my husband,” Spinne calls suddenly. Mercy turns around and their eyes meet. There is no emotion in her eyes, and there is no emotion in her tone either. “I killed him because it felt good to do it. I killed him because it would free me from hell.”

Mercy doesn’t ask any questions. She doesn’t think she’ll get any answers.

 

⏶

 

The answers don’t come in all at once. Mercy starts to piece them together. It’s a common theme between them now; Spinne kills, Mercy comes. Spinne tells her something about herself, and Mercy flies off.

 

⏶

 

Spinne has killed 267 people in the span of a year. Spinne says that she will kill many more, and that she doesn’t regret her actions. She does it to try and get a rise out of Mercy, it’s clear in the way that she says it. Perhaps Angela Ziegler would have been horrified. Angela Ziegler would have cried and begged. For her to stop? For her to die? Perhaps both.

Mercy is unhappy, of course. She likes to think that she doesn’t care, but there’s a gut feeling that screams “there is something wrong with this”. She doesn’t want to take so many lives. Mercy considers asking her to stop, because it makes her job that much harder for a multitude of reasons. Mercy never does; she doesn’t think that Spinne will listen.

 

⏶

 

“My name is Widowmaker.”

Mercy turns around. So Spinne has finally decided to give her a name. Against her better judgement, she gives Widowmaker a small smile. She doesn’t think about it for very long, but she thinks that Widowmaker smiles back.

The name is eerily fitting. Was this a name that she had given to herself, in the same way that Mercy had? Their eyes stay locked. “I could hear them laughing. It was funny to them, to destroy my life and to take everything I ever loved away from me. I am a broken woman, Mercy. I get off to killing, and seeing you is one of the few solaces that this _malédiction_ of a world can give me anymore.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Widowmaker was expecting silence. “... I can get back what I have lost. I just… I need to fulfill my orders, and they will give my humanity back.” Mercy knows that this isn’t true. She knows that Widowmaker knows that this isn’t true.

So why is she trying to convince herself that it is?

 

⏶

 

Project Name: Widowmaker _[formerly Amélie Lacroix]_

Medical History: No pre-existing conditions.

Description: Gérard Lacroix’s former wife. Subjected to phobia exploitation for two weeks [subject has a fear of arachnids which has since been eradicated] before sending her back to Overwatch HQ.  
Murdered Gérard Lacroix with no complications, although claimed to see a personification of death for three days afterwards. Carries out heists and various assassinations. Occasionally assigned to work with  Sombra and Reaper [see individual files for more information].

Status: Active

 

Notes: 

[XX/XX/XXXX]: Doctor Fritjof Karlsen proposed a plan to lower Widowmaker’s need motives drastically. Plans included extreme bradycardia [8 BPM], neural reworking in the hippocampus and amygdala, as well as a switch that when activated, increases dopamine neuronal activity. The purpose of these proposals was “to make it so that she feels as little remorse as possible, and to steady her aim so she can actually land shots” and “to give her an addition to doing a job well done, not just the killing itself”. Karlsen’s original proposal can be viewed here.  
[XX/XX/XXXX]: Doctor Nico Genovese sent a revised copy of the proposals. Argued that 8 BPM would damage Widowmaker to the point of cerebral anoxia, and suggested that heart rate is upped to 18 BPM. Also proposed a tapetum implant that would allow Widowmaker to see in the dark. Genovese’s reviews can be viewed here.  
[XX/XX/XXXX]: Widowmaker has made repeated claims that she can see the Grim Reaper, and refers to her as Mercy. Psychological testing and CT scans prove that Widowmaker is not experiencing symptoms of schizophrenia or psychosis. Delusions do not seem to interfere with Widowmaker’s work. Overseers are advised to proceed with caution.

 

⏶

 

The silence and knowing looks have become too familiar to Mercy. Mercy fears that she’s growing attached to Widowmaker, and she wonders if Widowmaker feels the same to her. It’s been two years and six months since their first meeting, and Widowmaker now has 443 confirmed kills. Mercy knows that Widowmaker is past the point of redemption.

Even still, Mercy is drawn to her. Not to the souls she’s created, the mayhem she’s caused. But Widowmaker herself. It’s troubling. She’s not supposed to grow attached, to make friends, and yet here she is, finding herself… Elated when she discovers that Widowmaker has gone on another killing spree. It is sickening, but Mercy wonders if she can forgive herself long enough to indulge.

“Tell me how you came to be,” Widowmaker asks. Mercy thinks upon this for a moment. It’s been such a long time since she’s thought about her life as Angela Ziegler, much less the ending of that life. She’s silent for a long time, but Widowmaker is fine with waiting.

“I used to be one of the world’s leading medical researchers. I finished my pre-medicals at seventeen, and graduated med school at twenty one. I was a prodigy. I worked as a surgeon before the Swiss government offered to pay for my own research station. Perhaps you use some of my inventions today. The… Nanobots. Seeks out abnormalities in the human body and adapts to become whatever that body needs. Skin cells, extra blood, bone, whatever. If the body has the ability to naturally replace what it’s lost, the nanobots would flush out soon after. If the person in question had medical disabilities, the nanobots had the option to monitor the body for a few days to tell themselves what was ‘normal’ for that person.”

Widowmaker nods slowly. Mercy feel a prickle of embarrassment; Widowmaker didn’t ask about her research. But she encourages her anyways. “That must have required extensive testing.”

“It did. And I’m not proud of the way that I did it,” Mercy admitted. “I asked for human subjects to test the results of my research on. The benefits of what I was suggesting outweighed the costs. So I was given twenty people to test on. If results proved fruitful, I would be allowed to continue. If not, they would cut my funding. It seemed fair, and I was confident.”

“And?”

“Out of the original group, seven out of the twenty survived. Four of them had weaker immune systems due to the nanobots multiplying and taking precedence over natural cells. Flushed themselves out as a result of an error.” Mercy takes in a deep breath. Exhale. “But that’s not what you wanted to know.”

Widowmaker shrugs. “It was interesting to hear nonetheless.”

“There was… An explosion. People were angry with the testing I did. The lives I took. Seventeen people… That’s a lot of families. And people grew angry when the nanobots didn’t work. I was the only person working on them up until I died; someone else improved the design after. Anyways, they rigged the place with explosives and hit the button while I was inside.” Mercy doesn’t know if she had deserved to die right then. She tells herself that she didn’t, but she’s truthfully unsure. “I survived for a while. Tried to inject the nanobots into me. They worked, just not in the way that I was hoping. Right now, my body is made up entirely of nanobots. And because of that, the others who are like me… They couldn’t lead my soul. What are you supposed to do with someone who’s spirit is alive when the body is dead? They turned me into one of them. And I’ve been leading souls ever since.”

Widowmaker says nothing for a long time.

“Perhaps we are alike. But my spirit is dead, and my body is alive.”

Mercy doesn’t know what to say to that.

 

⏶

 

Widowmaker kisses Mercy roughly. Mercy doesn’t let herself overanalyze the situation, and instead she presses her body to Widowmakers, and she kisses back. It’s awkward, not chaste, but when they pull away, Mercy couldn’t think of a way to make the moment more perfect. She grins at Widowmaker, and Widowmaker grins back.

 

⏶

 

Mercy knows their relationship is messed up, unnatural. Ethically wrong. But a killer and death itself; a more perfect combination couldn’t possibly exist. “ _Ich liebe di,_ ” she says to Widowmaker, with a tenderness her voice hasn’t been able to reach for a very long time.

Widowmaker sighs lovingly. She smiles. “ _Je t’aime,_ ” she says in return.


	8. The Ghost of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amélie Lacroix was presumed dead after her kidnapping by Talon. The only possible explanation for her being in Angela Ziegler’s room right there and then was that Angela was either extremely high or delusional (and God forbid she’s both).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [its another songfic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_i0rgb14NaM)

It’s 4 AM, and Angela Ziegler can’t find it in herself to sleep.

She had climbed the sleep deprivation echelon rather quickly, having passed over-excitement at 1 AM and needlessly anxious at 2:30. Now she’s just numb, sad, and only slightly in the need of a drink. Angela lends those emotions to the photos she still hasn’t taken down. Silly photos of her and a certain Amélie. Photos that only barely crossed the threshold of ‘platonic’. Cheek kisses and loving gazes, and even a print from one of the first shows Angela went to.

It’s a little pathetic, wasn’t it? She’s still selfishly in love, even with Gérard dead and Amélie missing. It’s been… How many months now? God, Angela hadn’t been able to look _anyone_ in the eye for _weeks_ after Gérard was found dead in his own home.. Her guilt combined with the pain of loss made for sleepless nights and a sense of self-loathing that could be matched by very few people. Life sure as hell had thing for bending her over and dicking her in the ass.

Just when she had found love for the first time in a decade ( _even_ if it was infidelity), her job as an Overwatch member had to go and fuck the whole thing up. Fuck Talon, fuck Overwatch, and _especially_ fuck Angela for getting so upset about it all. She’s supposed to have moved on, just a little, and in all the months she'd spent crying and thinking, it feels like she hasn’t made any progress at all. Suppose it’s about time to give up on love entirely and bring in thirty cats, despite the fact that Angela has allergies, huh?

“I’m not even forty yet,” Angela mutters and hoists herself off the wooden floor of her living room. She’s far too young to be thinking about retiring and holing herself up in her shitty bungalow with an unspecified amount of furry friends. She thinks about trying to hit the bed for the umpteenth time that night before deciding she’ll just turn on the stereo and pretend her life is a depressing music video.

She loads up one of her anachronistic CDs, and nods her head to the beat. A syncopated tune in 4/4 time that Angela can’t help but to sashay around the room to. She hums the main tune, and as the songs kicks into the chorus, Angela finds herself dancing a waltz with a person who isn’t there.

Angela has fond memories of Amélie’s dancing. She focused on ballet, but that wasn’t to say that other types of dance weren’t out of her reach. _Turn, step._ Amélie always had such a graceful form, and in turn Angela always looked awkward and unsure of herself. They tried to arrange a quick session for Angela to get down some basic exercises, though they spent less time stretching than they did laughing and kissing. _Turn, step._

If Amélie is dead, then Angela hopes that at least her death was swift and painless. She hopes that Amélie and Gérard are happy in Heaven or the next life or wherever the fuck that people go after they die. She hopes that Gérard doesn’t hate her for sleeping with his wife, though she wouldn’t say she didn’t deserve it if he does.

 _Turn, step._ The song draws to a close, and Angela wipes away the wetness forming under her eyes. Angela misses Amélie, and she doesn’t think that any amount of time will change that. It’s unfair, the circumstances of their meeting. Amélie deserved the world and more, and now she was dead. 

“You have a very interesting taste in music, _chérie_.” Angela’s head whizzes to the source of the noise, and she’s met with Amélie Lacroix. Amélie, smirking down at her.

But that’s impossible. Amélie Lacroix was presumed dead after her kidnapping by Talon. The only possible explanation for her being in Angela Ziegler’s room right there and then was that Angela was either extremely high or delusional (and God forbid she’s both).

That voice. That face. It’s so Amélie, and it’s so real.

“Go back to the last song,” Amélie says, and steps off the windowsill and into the room. Angela’s head is spinning, and she sees visions of long years of intensive therapy in her future. There’s no way that Amélie was here right now. “You look so surprised, is something the matter?”

“You… You’re dead,” Angela stammers, absently carrying herself to the radio to go back to the previous song. “Why are you here?”

Amélie tsks, and leans over Angela’s shoulder. “I would suppose that the opposite is true. I’m right here.” To emphasize her point, slender arms wrap around Angela’s shoulders, they pull her closer. “I wanted to see you before they do the surgeries.”

“Surgeries?”

“It’s unimportant,” Amélie decides, pressing a kiss to the crook of Angela’s neck. “ _Pour maintenant, on danse._ ”

Angela barely has the time to ask what the hell Amélie was talking about until she was whisked back onto the hard living room floor, forced into the same waltz she’d been trying to execute before. Only this time, she was _actually_ dancing with the woman she had been thinking about for so long.

 _Turn, step._ “Fuck, I missed you,” Angela breathes out, leaning her head against Amélie’s. “Even if you’re just a figment of my own overworked imagination, I just… _God_.” At this point, she can’t find it in herself to give two shits.

Amélie hums. _Turn, step._

“You’re like… You’re like a ghost. Everyone thought you were dead, and now you appear in my fucking _room_ of all places,” Angela babbles, and Amélie smiles all the while. She’s so tired that she doesn’t mind it. _Turn, step._ “I missed you so goddamn much…”

The song ends much too early for Angela. Amélie pulls away, and presses a her lips to Angela’s, and they stay like that for a while as the next song begins to play. It’s nice, but it ends, and she’s left wanting more.

“Stay with me,” she begs. All nice things have to come to an end soon. She knows that, and yet she still implores because maybe just this once, she’ll be allowed to have something good. “Don’t leave me just yet. Stay with me until the sun comes up.” Angela is crying now, the sleep deprivation and the tears burning her eyes. She doesn’t know why, but she can’t stop. She thinks about the time that Angela gets to spend with everyone but Amélie herself, and all the time that will now be spent without her. She doesn't want to think about that anymore.

The look on Amélie’s face soothes her, even if it's little. “You’ll see me again,” she says.  
And then she’s gone.


End file.
